


All That's Left To Do

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I have damaged Q, M/M, nongraphic descriptions of injury, nongraphic reference to torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Bond is adept at dealing with pain and death. Q is adept at dealing with the aftermath. It doesn't really work as well the other way around.





	All That's Left To Do

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/790180.html?thread=102002852#t102002852) comment_fic prompt
> 
> It got a lot angstier than I really meant for it to and there's probably not as much cuddling as there should be. Sorry

Contrary to appearances, Bond often felt at a bit of a loss for what to do. He was trained as well as he possibly could be, but there were some things one simply couldn’t be prepared for. There were some things that brought Bond up short because what the hell was he supposed to do when facing down goddamned carnivorous reptiles, or an opponent pulling an actual sword on him, or a high speed chase on skis? The trick of it was, however, to quickly get over being at a loss and choose a course of action. Bond didn’t always choose the best course of action, but he had lived through everything so far, so he would suppose he hasn’t done too badly on the whole.

But that was the field. Split-second decisions came more easily. Adrenaline fueled his actions and the consequences could come later.

This- this was home. A decision was not one to be made lightly here. The adrenaline was gone, this was later, and the consequences had come.

Q was lying on their bed, half curled up and staring at the doorway. His eyes were bright and unfocused and though he stared, Bond knew he wasn’t seeing; Q hadn’t so much as flinched when Bond had appeared in the doorway. In fact, Q had never been so still, not even when they’d come to rescue him from his captors- because of course Q hadn’t taken captivity lying down. Of course Q had blown up half the bloody building by the time they got there.

Blown up half the building, got his hands on a gun, and shot at least two of his assailants before Bond had come barreling in and Q’s strength and adrenaline had given out.

Bond had taken care of anyone else. Everyone else. Anybody who had dared laid a hand on Q (and, oh, did it look like there had been a lot of hands) and anybody who had enabled it and- and now there was nothing left for Bond to do. All there had been after that was letting Tanner direct cleanup, letting medical look Q over, and taking Q home when the quartermaster demanded to be released.

And here they were now. Slowly, Bond approached the bed, and Q remained absolutely still. It was only at the soft call of his name that Q’s eyes moved to Bond, his gaze still lacking focus; somewhere along the line, Q’s glasses had been lost, probably broken beyond repair, and though he had at least three spare pairs spread out between home and work, he hadn’t bothered to dig any up. He had managed only a lightning-quick shower to remove grime and blood before he struggled into sweatpants and one of Bond’s overlarge t-shirts and retreated to the bed.

Careful not to jostle anything, Bond sat down on the edge of the bed. His course of action beyond that remained unclear. What was he meant to say? ‘How are you?’ was possibly the stupidest question he could fathom, and the answer was obvious besides. ‘Good job on being halfway to rescuing yourself by the time I got there’ sounded hollow at best, mocking at worst. ‘Do you want some painkillers?’ was probably the safest route to go, but Q had refused all but the bare minimum from medical. “No more drugs,” he’d said.

“Can I join you?” Was what Bond finally came up with.

Q squinted over at Bond, but nodded almost automatically. Slowly, Bond took his place on the bed, mirroring Q’s position until they were face to face, close enough that one could reach out and touch if they wanted. Q didn’t move. He watched Bond settle, and then he was far away again, gaze unfocused and face slack where it wasn’t swollen with bruises.

The entire left side of Q’s face was a miasma of red and purple and swollen flesh, his eye only half open. Three fingers on his left hand were broken, bandaged and set. Beneath the shirt Q had appropriated, Bond knew his ribs were cracked and wrapped. A cut on his temple was stitched shut, as were a few other lacerations on his person. His wrists were abraded, scraped raw and bloody where Q had escaped his bindings. The list went on. Anger swelled in Bond’s chest, but there was nothing more he could do. Everyone was already dead. What was left?

“How do you do this?” Bond asked finally.

Q’s gaze came back to Bond. It was a bit difficult to tell with the clear half of his face pushed into the pillow, but he looked confused. “When I come home looking like this,” Bond clarified, reaching out to curl his hand gently over Q’s bicep, a small swath of undamaged skin, “How do you deal with it?”

“I’ve had practice.” Q replied, his voice cracking painfully over the words, raw from smoke inhalation and possibly from screaming.

“Gets easier, then?” Bond asked, a pale shadow of his usual sarcasm.

“Never.” Q shook his head minutely, “But I learned. I patch you up and remind you that you’re back with me and usually… it’s enough.”

Bond nodded, though he wasn’t sure that was enough. He wasn’t sure anything would ever be enough to fix the gaping hole of rage and fear sitting inside him, the one that screeched whenever he looked back over Q’s injuries.

“How do you do this?” Q pulled Bond from his thoughts, echoing the man’s question back at him.

“What?”

“I hurt so much I feel like I should be dead. I killed people.” Q said softly, “How can you possibly deal with this?”

“I learned.” Bond told him, “And now there’s you. I come back to you and usually it’s enough.”

Q exhaled, shaky and shallow, and Bond breached the space between them, shuffling forward until he was able to wrap his arm over Q’s uninured ribs and feel his stuttering breath. Q curled into the touch, grabbing Bond’s hand with his right and locking their fingers together, pushing further into the embrace until he’d buried his face in the crook of Bond’s neck. “I shot two people.” Q said softly, muffled in Bond’s shirt, “Blew up… at least two more.”

It had been three, actually, but Bond didn’t correct him. “You survived.” He replied instead.

Q only released another breath, his whole body beginning to shake beneath Bond’s arm. “Everything hurts,” Q whispered against him, “And I’m fucking terrified.”

Bond tightened his grip as much as he dared. What could he say to that? ‘You’re safe now’? That was a load of shit and they both knew it; if Q had been abducted on home soil this time, it could happen again. Safety wasn’t assured. ‘It’s over’? An even bigger load of shit. It was far from over. Bond brushed his fingers gently up and down Q’s back, still at a loss.

There was no one to track down, no leads to follow, nobody to shoot- there was only Q, shaking apart in his arms because their roles had suddenly been reversed and all that was left was…

“I have you.” Bond murmured at last, “I’ve got you.”

Q pressed his forehead into Bond’s shoulder and breathed, shallow and forced and desperate.

Bond ran his hand up Q’s spine and cupped the back of his head carefully. “I’m here.”

All that was left was them.

But maybe that was enough.


End file.
